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LOOTBOX 

Christian Butterfield

LOOTBOX 1: A FISH
my father speaks in parables: give a man a fish 
and the gills will bloody the mouth. teach a man
to fish and the ocean will stockpile bones, seafloor 
as mausoleum as somewhere in the virtual distance, 
a fishmonger strips scales from poorly-rendered 
flesh. a gilded crate implodes. a wooden nailbomb, 
my father splinters. inside, a tuna-melt, still throbbing
and swearing, as if it could still be alive. 

LOOTBOX 2: A LOAF
my father speaks in parables: an devout man treads 
icicle-water until he sinks. now in heaven, he is peeved.
the word “forsaken” gets tossed around. still, he is
dead. god won’t save you because he wants you to save 
yourself. garlic bread is the cheapo starch, a wholesaler
sells it for $1.52 per loaf. my father counts his blessings 
as if they could be fungible. he holds the lootbox to his 
chest. he calls it potential energy; i call it shrapnel.

LOOTBOX 3: A RIDDLE
my father speaks in parables: this time it’s a riddle:
what radicalized you? a: the medical insurance doesn’t 
cover it, the hemodialysis appointments, sanguine rivers 
blessed by a machine. b: my father prays to a lottery
ticket, luck’s detonation as prophecy. c: accrual has turned
into a form of love, hasn’t it? d: i read once, that lost
within the swell of late-stage capitalism, what we
are most desperate for is a sense of control.

LOOTBOX 4: LOAVES AND FISH AND LOAVES AND FISH AND LOAVES AND FISH AND-
my father speaks in parables: give a man a son 
and the son will never be lucky enough. teach 
a man to parable and a man will eventually parable 
for sport. the lootbox distends, swollen and emptier 
than it appears. my father tells me that once, in the
city of bethsaida, a miracleman fed millions from
just five loaves, two cuts of tuna. my father is no
miracleman. ocean-water pools in his stomach.

LOOTBOX 5: EMPTY
my father speaks in parables: it is empty. 
it was always empty. now when i think 
of miracles, i think of doomsday clocks. 
i think of borrowed time. a lootbox bursts.
my father’s corpse pools out, still throbbing
and swearing as if he could still be alive. my 
father taught me well. i hold every miracle
against my chest, pray that today i am blessed.

my bedframe is 73 feet away from the nearest grave. this is not a metaphor; my apartment complex is sandwiched between a grocery store and a cemetery. death can be mundane when you need it to be, so i tell people i live beside a rock garden. naturally, i have been thinking about my father’s burial. at twilight, graves etch his name into their chests. my bedframe is not 73 feet away from the nearest grave; it is the grave. the cemetery does not end at the fence, the no trespassing sign. my father is not dead, but he is a graverobber. death can be mundane when you need it to be, so i rest coffin-style against the earth, stare into the ugly, endless sky.

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